


The American and the Russian

by JacksMedullaOblongata



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Ch.1 contains a ref. to the TV show, He also swears and is generally easy to piss off, I s2g I didn't mean to write 'shall we go' twice, Illya has volatile personality disorder, Illya is a lightweight, Illya smokes, It’s a really bad habit of his, M/M, They share an apartment bc it's more practical, angst later on, so apparently now it’s Solo’s catchphrase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacksMedullaOblongata/pseuds/JacksMedullaOblongata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are just two men- with (unfortunately) conflicting personalities- trying to stop a criminal organization in possession of nuclear weapons. Set modern day, rather than the 1960s. NapKin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Dare You

**Author's Note:**

> This movie ain't even out yet and I’m already shipping them so much it’s unreal. 
> 
> Set modern day but with a similar plot: they're against a criminal organization with possible nuclear weapons. Just not in the 60s. 
> 
> For the sake of this fic, the KGB still exists (in real life, it ended in 1991 and became the FSB and SVR). 
> 
> Illya Kuryakin is referred to as Illya; Napoleon Solo is referred to as Solo. 
> 
> I wrote it so that Solo is a bit more flirty and immature, whilst Illya is serious and has anger issues. Plus this contains swearing bc why not. (Illya’s an angry man!)
> 
> Plus, thanks to Alexis404 for telling me the ship name is NapKin! :D

“For the last time, I’m not interested in you.”  


“Oh, come on. Why not?”  


The two were walking fast through the back alley, trying to avoid being spotted by any men that were looking for them. They had the cover of darkness, the sunlight dimming as it became late evening.  


“Well, for a start, it would be completely unprofessional,” Illya began. Solo mimicked his voice but the Russian ignored it, continuing. “Not to mention that it would be a ridiculous affair with a job such as ours. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to end this conversation.”  


He walked faster, making Solo have to hurry. A small smile cracked the American’s face.  


“You mean that you would be interested if it weren’t for our job?” he asked. A withering glare from the Russian killed his hopes.  


“Don’t push your luck, cowboy. I do not find you appealing in the slightest. You are not as likeable, nor as attractive as you think,” he said before motioning for them to stop. Solo bristled at his words but said nothing.  


He wondered how they’d even got this far without killing each other. They were constantly at each other’s throats and Illya had even threatened to pull his gun on Solo before. They’d fought more times than he could be bothered to count.  


“Always the stubborn Russian,” he muttered absently, earning an angry snap for him to be quiet. They waited for a few more seconds before they moved, fast and low along the ground towards large glass doors. The entrance of a mall. They stopped nearby.  


“We need to get in as inconspicuously as possible,” Solo said quietly but, even as Illya nodded, he repeated the phrase, this time emphasising the ‘inconspicuously as possible’ part.  


“I heard you the first time,” Illya said, indignant. Solo sighed.  


“Pal, you are not always- how should I put this? The most subtle.”  


“Excuse me?”  


“You’re quite loud. People may notice us and that may lead to our enemies finding us. Now, we don’t want that, do-”  


Solo didn’t finish as he felt Illya’s arms wrap around his throat, dragging him into a chokehold. The Russian’s face was cold and completely humorless.  


“Do not ridicule me,” he said simply before letting go. Solo scowled and rubbed his neck, watching as Illya approached the mall doors. He looked about the street. Solo breathed a sigh of relief when nobody ran at them, and joined Illya.  


The mall was cool and lighter than outside. Solo stepped to go ahead, accidentally treading on Illya’s foot, and found an elbow in his side. He saw the glint of Illya’s glare as he glanced across but didn’t say anything. Voices drew their focus behind them. Solo’s heart beat faster as he heard a man shout, “I saw them! They’re over there, they went into the mall!”  


Solo reacted first, dragging his Russian companion by the sleeve into a nearby clothing store. Hurrying through as quick as he could without seeming suspicious, he eventually stopped; as Illya watched blankly, Solo pretended to look through some clothes and picked out some shirts. At Illya’s confused stare, Solo sighed.  


“We need to hide,” he explained quickly. “Let’s go to the changing rooms.”  


The Russian nodded. Solo pushed a couple of shirts into Illya’s hands before gesturing at the changing rooms. They entered, glancing back and seeing men begin looking in the store for them. Solo pushed Illya to go faster. Illya stepped into a stall and gave a surprised yell as Solo followed directly, closing the curtain behind them.  


“What are you-” Illya started.  


“They’re looking for us and we have more of a chance of not being found if we take up less space,” Solo interrupted. Illya fell silent before crossing his arms.  


“I don’t want you any closer to me,” he said. Solo rolled his eyes.  


“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked.  


“I mean, don’t you dare try anything in here.”  


“I never- who do you think I am? This is my job and I’m not going to compromise it,” Solo said, somehow managing to sound surprised, offended and accusing as he spoke. Illya frowned before they fell silent. He opened his mouth to speak when they heard footsteps coming near, accompanied by raised voices. There were formal introductions between the agents and two other voices, who were possibly the changing room assistants.  


“Have you seen two men?” a male voice asked. Illya and Solo exchanged a glance, silently hoping nobody would answer yes.  


A female voice said, “No, I’m sorry.”  


“We can check, if that would help,” a male voice added. Solo closed his eyes and cursed silently. Just their luck.  


“Get ready to run,” Solo hissed. Illya braced himself. They both tensed as the curtain shifted before a hand was pulling it to the side, revealing them. The young male employee’s eyes widened and he began to gasp before Solo shoved him, moving fast from the cubicle and down the corridor. He and Illya barreled into the agents, knocking them back before they could react, and ran while they had the chance.  


Solo and Illya sprinted from the store and out of the mall, the shouts to stop them getting more distant as they went further. The cover of night was welcome, the shadows swallowing them and keeping them hidden. They reached their car and climbed in, Illya behind the wheel and Solo in the passenger seat. It was there that they stopped, having lost their enemies a while back.  


Solo looked across at Illya, who was out of breath and leaning on the wheel, his gaze blank. His cap was pulled low over his eyes, as always. After a minute, the Russian looked across and he wore an open expression for the first time ever. The only expression Solo had ever seen him have was a poker-face, accompanied by cold eyes and tight lips.  


Right now, the Russian’s eyes were wider and his lips were even turned up slightly at the corners. It was the closest to human he’d ever looked. But then his eyes darkened, his mouth returning to that thin line, and the moment slipped away. Illya’s expression closed and his invisible armor hid him away once more. Solo cursed himself for missing his chance.  


“Shall we go?” Illya asked. Solo glanced back at the mall and nodded.  


“Yes, we shall,” he said. The car rumbled as Illya turned the keys, starting the engine. The drive was silent. There was never any small talk to be gained from the Russian man, Solo had discovered.  


They reached their apartment around eleven at night. The slamming of the car doors was loud in the quiet street, the sound carrying through the cool air as they walked up to the apartment door. Solo handed Illya the keys and it wasn’t long until they had opened the door and entered into what Solo called their ‘safe house’. At the time of purchase, Illya had pointed out that it technically wasn’t safe, as they were possibly even more vulnerable in their own home; still, Solo was adamant about the nickname.  


“Want a beer?” Solo called to Illya, who was taking off his jacket and cap. The Russian shrugged, which Solo took for a yes. He grabbed two beers and passed one to his companion. They fell quiet, the silence only broken by the hiss of the bottles opening.  


“To us,” Solo ventured hopefully, holding out his bottle to toast. Illya looked down at it before looking up to Solo’s face.  


“To us,” he answered, clinking his bottle against Solo’s. They drank in silence. Solo gestured with his head towards the couch.  


“Want to see what’s on?”  


Illya shrugged again, as if he wasn’t interested, but he followed when Solo went and sat down. The American grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. As he flicked through channels, he turned to Illya.  


“Are you actually going to sleep tonight?” he asked dryly. Without turning his head, Illya replied, “What is that supposed to mean?”  


“I mean, you insomniac, you never sleep. You stay up for ungodly hours.”  


“How do you-” Illya began to say, turning his head when he stopped. His hand shot out and snatched the cap from where it rested on Solo’s head. With a frown, the Russian placed the cap back on his own head. “This is not yours.”  


Solo was biting back a laugh at Illya’s over-the-top reaction. He continued to flick channels and settled on the nature program. Nothing else was on. He got himself a coffee to stay awake.  


Solo noticed that, as the hours drew on, Illya’s eyelids began to droop, much to his surprise. Illya leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. Solo reached across and took the beer from his hands, not wanting it to be spilled. The Russian gave a sleepy murmur of protest but didn’t open his eyes.  


Eventually, his cap fell off as his head lolled around three a.m. Solo himself was feeling tired, even with the coffee. He was barely focusing on the television- the presenter was saying something about a fox’s eating habits- when something touched his shoulder. Looking down, he saw that it was Illya’s temple, resting on his shoulder. The Russian’s eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly. His blond hair tickled Solo’s ear. The cap was lying somewhere by their feet, Solo assumed.  


“Oh, man,” he murmured, smiling slightly as he reached across and picked up his phone. He held it out, setting it to front camera. Solo positioned the camera so it had both him and the sleeping Russian. When he’d taken the photo, it became his new home screen. He barely used his phone and Illya never went on it, so he’d never find out.  


Not long after, Solo fell asleep too, his cheek resting on the top of Illya’s head.  


*  


“What are you doing?”  


Solo’s eyes flickered open and he saw that they were no longer sat upright, like when they’d fallen asleep. No, it was far different- he was lying with his arm out, over the Russian’s chest. Solo sat up as quick as he could.  


“I’m sorry, I was asleep,” he said. Illya just scowled, straightening his shirt and putting his cap back on as he sat up too.  


It didn’t take long for them to get out on the bustling street. Solo took the lead, with a good eye for diners, whilst Illya just followed. They reached a cafe and Solo slipped into a booth. Illya sat opposite, glancing around with a reserved expression. A waitress approached, drawing their eyes up with her movement. She smiled at them.  


“Hello, gentlemen,” she said brightly, handing them menus. “My name is Claire and I’ll be serving you today.”  


She paused while they looked at the menus before asking what drinks they wanted.  


“Just water, please,” Illya said shortly. She nodded and looked at Solo, whose face twisted in a characteristic suave smile.  


“Coffee for me, sweetheart,” he said. She smiled a bit more as she wrote down their orders and left. As she turned away, Illya’s gaze turned on Solo, intense and questioning.  


“Do you have to flirt with every woman we ever meet?” he asked, exasperated. When Solo raised an eyebrow, he added, “don’t you ever turn it off?”  


“Hey, when you’ve it, you’ve got it; I’ve got it,” the American grinned. Claire returned with their drinks and set them down, smiling at Solo.  


“Thank you, Claire,” Solo said. He then winked. His Russian associate rolled his eyes and looked back down at the menu. A sudden thought struck Solo and he leaned forwards.  


“Wait, are you jealous?” he asked, starting to smile again. Illya reacted so fast that it almost made Solo jump.  


The Russian slammed the menu down so hard that it made the waitress jump. The tray she was holding tipped and the glass of water fell, smashing on the floor. She let out an “oh!” of surprise. Neither Solo or Illya moved, eyes locked. Half the cafe went silent, the occupants staring at them. Illya’s jaw was tensed and there was a knotted vein in his neck. Pale eyes burning, he leaned towards Solo.  


“How dare you,” he hissed. Now the entire cafe was watching and some people had even begun moving towards them, as if they expected a fight to break out. Solo leaned closer.  


“How dare I what?” he countered. He knew this was thin ice he was venturing onto; Illya wasn’t exactly the most patient, nor the most calm man in the world. He got angry far more easily and more often than his American associate.  


“How dare you imply that I care for you,” Illya replied, his voice soft but dangerous. His eyes were chips of ice in a face of stone. “You egotistical, conceited, big-headed _fuck_.”  


There was a collected gasp throughout the cafe and there was a flurry of parents trying to cover young children’s ears. Solo sighed and stood up, brushing himself down.  


“Come on,” he said, grabbing Illya by the wrist to get him to leave. The Russian, instead of complying, ripped his arm free and punched Solo in the face, sending him reeling. When people looked as if they were going to restrain Illya, he simply glowered at them before leaving. Solo was helped up.  


“Did you want us to call the cops?” one woman asked. He shook his head, smiling.  


“No,” Solo answered genially. “He gets like this in the morning. He’s a little grumpy.”  


He put down some money for compensation and followed where Illya had gone. Solo found him outside, leaning against the wall. The Russian didn’t even look at him. He just said, “I meant what I said.”  


“Aw. That hurt my feelings,” Solo said. He looked down at his feet. “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”  


“Apology accepted.”  


“Really?” Solo looked up, surprised. Illya turned an extremely annoyed yet tired gaze on him.  


“Yes, really. Just don’t do it again.”  


He looked away from Solo and raised a hand to his lips. Solo frowned before he reached out and slapped the back of the Russian’s hand hard, making him drop a lit cigarette.  


“What was that?” Illya demanded.  


“You’re smoking again! You told me you’d stopped,” Solo said accusingly.  


“Well, I started again,” Illya replied dryly. He trod on the floored cigarette with a distasteful grimace. “It is not a good habit of mine, but it helps.”  


Solo had given up on the ‘helps with what’ question long ago. It just led to lies and excuses. Instead, he’d taken to hiding Illya’s cigarette packets until he gave up on them.  


“Packet,” Solo said, holding out a hand. Illya refused, crossing his arms and fixing the American with a level gaze. Solo twitched his fingers. When that didn’t work, he clicked them. “I said, packet.”  


Illya still didn’t give him it. Solo sighed, beginning to turn away when he lunged back, searching Illya’s pockets for the packet. Illya gave an angry yell and shoved Solo but was too late. The American stumbled back with triumph in his eyes and a cigarette packet held high. He waved it at Illya, who grabbed for it but missed. With an expression of extreme irritation, Illya threw his hands up.  


“Fine. Take them,” he snapped before crossing his arms again. Solo tucked the cigarettes into his jacket.  


“Shall we go?” he smiled. Illya seemed to be back to normal. He nodded and they began to walk, towards the mall.  


“So how exactly are we going to get into a closed store?” the Russian asked. Solo was gingerly touching the bruise on his cheekbone before he answered.  


“Are you any good at breaking in?”  


For the first time ever, a slight smile graced the Russian’s face and, to Solo, it was a wonderful sight.  


“The best,” Illya said.


	2. The Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Solo go to find information, but not all goes to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed how, in a scene from UNCLE, Illya says, “Did you deactivate alarm?”. This made me realize that he doesn't speak perfect English 100% of the time. I’ve incorporated a tiny bit of that but he mostly has proper grammar. (I may be wrong about the alarm scene, but oh well XD)
> 
> Also, in this chapter, Illya delivers an insult to Solo that (to me, anyway) is a spectacular burn. Enjoy~

It took a ten minute walk to reach the store and it took Illya less than a minute to crack the lock on the door open. He looked back at Solo, almost as if asking for praise. Solo smiled and patted his shoulder.  


“Nice, pal. Let’s go.”  


Illya’s eyebrows dropped and he scowled at the patronization. He stood up from his crouch and Solo was yet again reminded of his towering height. Sure, he was only a few inches taller than Solo but Solo like being the tall one. He was six foot, which wasn’t bad, but next to this giant Russian agent, he was small.  


“You are staring,” Illya said bluntly and Solo blinked. He had been staring at the Russian’s face very openly; now Illya was regarding him quietly, head cocked. Solo tried to brush it off with a dry laugh.  


“Getting hopeful, are we?” he joked but regretted it immediately went Illya’s face turned to thunder. Solo added a hasty apology and Illya’s face cleared slightly. They entered the door as quietly as possible. After a few minutes of searching, Illya had found a lot of files that might contain information they needed. However, all did not go well. Two voices came through the door behind them, urgent and angry. The two spun round to look and shared an alarmed stare. There was no time to get away. Illya thrust the folder of files he had gathered at Solo before pushing him.  


“Go, find an exit.”  


“What about-”  


“Go!” Illya shouted. The cabinet next to them pinged as a bullet struck it and this was Solo’s motivation to move. As he ran, he glanced back and saw Illya firing back. The Russian’s face was eerily calm even as he shot one of the two men to death. Continuing on, Solo found a door and kicked it open. It led out onto the street, to their escape. Realizing that he didn’t want to leave the Russian behind, he ran back to yell for Illya. Solo reached the room again; his movement drew Illya’s eye, causing a devastating moment of distraction.  


Solo saw the last remaining man raise a handgun and pull the trigger, the bullet flying fast and hitting Illya in the arm. The Russian let out a grunt and staggered back, dropping his gun.  


“No!” Solo cried. Dropping the folder and pulling his own gun free, he shot the man dead before grabbing Illya and catching him before he fell. The Russian’s face twisted in pain but almost instantly reclaimed its calm. He stood on his own and shrugged Solo off.  


“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “I just need medical care, which I can do myself.”  


Solo noticed emphasis on the ‘myself’ and wondered why Illya was being so defensive. Nevertheless, he went along with it, picking up the files and offering help to Illya when he needed it. Despite his determination to seem unhurt by his injury, Illya did let Solo drive them back to their apartment. Upon getting through the door, the Russian began to pull off his jacket. Seeing that Illya was struggling, Solo moved to help but was elbowed away with a short but brutal snarl for him to “stay away”. Then the Russian agent walked into the bathroom without another word.  


Stung, Solo retreated to his bedroom where he began to sort through the files they had stolen. As he picked up one labeled ‘CLASSIFIED’ in large red letters, Solo heard Illya curse loudly, first in English then in Russian. He was probably digging the bullet out.  


This was followed by first a few more extremely offensive growled curse words that almost made Solo smile, then a brief pause. Finally, the door opened and Illya stepped out. Solo saw that he had changed from his black turtleneck sweater to a simple shirt and there was a faint outline of bandages below the sleeve. Illya strode purposefully across the room and picked up a bottle of vodka.  


Solo didn’t think much of it at the time. After all, who didn’t want a drink to numb the pain of being shot? So he left Illya alone and spent hours poring over the files. There was very little useful information; it was actually quite disappointing. Eventually, Solo was yawning as he looked at his watch. One in the morning.  


“We should get some sleep,” he said, walking back through to where Illya was. Illya looked up from where he was sat on the couch with glazed eyes. The bottle was almost empty. He gave a wobbly head shake at the American.  


“Sleep,” Solo ordered. Illya simply lifted his vodka bottle and took a long gulp. He then proceeded to swing it at Solo’s head.  


“No,” he protested.  


“You’re drunk!” Solo said, exasperated, catching the Russian by the wrist. Standing up fast, Illya almost smiled- almost, there was a glint in his eye- and pushed Solo so that he almost fell.  


“You sleep. I drink,” he said shortly. His hat was lopsided and he swayed as he drank again. Before Solo could say anything else, Illya began to speak Russian. Solo picked up a few choice insults through the slurred speech. Mostly “your mother” and expletives came through clearly. Sighing, Solo just stood up straight and put a hand on the Russian’s shoulder. To his surprise, Illya stopped in his tirade to fix the American with an intense blue gaze.  


“Make sure you don’t hurt yourself,” Solo said, like a parent talking to a child. He left the Russian and went to his bed, falling asleep fairly quickly. Solo was only woken when the door to his room opened. He moved his hand, reaching down for the gun he kept by his bed when he saw a flash of blond followed by Illya’s face. The Russian fell face-first onto the bed.  


“Um,” Solo said, confused. He reached out and shook Illya. “Wrong room.”  


Without lifting his head, Illya reached out and shushed Solo, his extended finger physically mushing the American’s mouth. Then he abruptly fell to sleep within a few seconds. He smelled of vodka. It was strong but not too unpleasant, and Solo managed to sleep again.  


The morning after, Solo had to bite back a smile as the terrible hangover hit the Russian agent. He had left his room early as to not disturb the sleeping Russian and was making breakfast when Illya emerged. With tousled hair and a face like death, he didn’t seem to notice the room he was exiting- probably a good thing, Solo thought.  


“Morning,” Solo greeted cheerily. He saw Illya wince at his deliberately loud voice. The hungover Russian agent held out a hand, palm out. He closed his hand to point just a finger.  


“Do not speak to me,” he said.  


“Lightweight,” Solo chuckled. Too pained to argue or react, Illya just sat down and covered his face. He let out a groan of what seemed like regret. During the silence, Solo wondered how much vodka actually got someone drunk. Maybe Illya wasn’t bad at drinking; maybe it was just really strong vodka. Then again, Solo could easily drink the same amount of wine and only feel a little dizzy. He laughed at the thought of Illya being a lightweight.  


“Please stop.”  


Illya’s voice broke through his thoughts and Solo looked over. His questioning gaze made Illya sigh. “You are laughing too loud.”  


“Sorry,” Solo replied, rather insincerely. The Russian’s brow furrowed. Despite having a pounding head, he pushed himself to his feet and disappeared into his own room. Solo continued to make breakfast. He had heard that a good hangover remedy was salt.  


Illya returned fully dressed with his turtleneck on again. There was blood on fingertips as he washed them in the basin next to Solo.  


“Blood?” the American agent asked. Illya fixed him with a serious stare.  


“I _was_ shot,” he said dryly. As minutes passed, it was as if he had never had a hangover. He was brisk and upright and spoke normally, no longer wincing at light or noise. Solo wanted to know his secret. The silence was broken by the Russian speaking.  


“Did I …?” Illya began, turning his head slightly to gesture at Solo’s room. Solo realized that he may have remembered now. He nodded and Illya rubbed his eyes, murmuring something in Russian.  


“I meant to ask you, pal. How’d you get over your hangover so quick?” Solo asked, changing the subject. Illya looked at him with a speck of amusement in his eyes and said nothing. Solo scowled. It must be a Russian thing, he decided.  


They ate a silent breakfast. Afterwards, Solo pulled his suit blazer on and was about to leave when Illya tapped his arm.  


“I would not normally ask this of you,” the Russian agent said, “but would you mind bandaging my arm?”  


“Sure,” Solo said, surprised at the question.  


“It is because the pain is affecting my whole body, and I do not want to let it get worse,” Illya explained. Solo felt slightly disappointed. He had hoped that the Russian wanted his help because it was _him_ giving help. But no, Illya only wanted help for a genuine reason: he hurt too much to bandage himself. Dammit.  


Why did he care so much anyway?  


Solo tried not to watch as Illya pulled off his turtleneck and rolled up his shirt sleeve, wincing. As Solo unwound the bloodied bandages carefully, he said casually, “So why are you letting me help anyway?”  


“Meaning?” Illya asked.  


“I mean, you usually hate me,” Solo ventured cautiously. He didn’t know what reply to expect. The one he got was different to what he had imagined.  


“I do not hate you.”  


Those words sent an odd shiver through Solo’s chest. He tried not to smile as he redid the bandages, taking his time on purpose.  


“You don’t hate me?” he prompted.  


“I find you more tolerable than I used to,” Illya admitted. Finally, Solo tied off the bandages and rolled down the shirt sleeve himself. Illya watched quietly and thanked the American agent afterwards. Solo threw a smile at him.  


“No, the pleasure was all mine,” he grinned. Illya’s face returned its normal neutrality and he put on his cap. Picking up his gun and checking it, he spoke to Solo.  


“What was in the files?”  


“Oh, nothing,” Solo answered. Illya’s head shot up and he fixed Solo with a glare.  


“You are telling me I was shot for ‘nothing’?” he demanded. Solo shrugged.  


“Sorry, pal. I didn’t know.”  


With an annoyed sigh, Illya tucked his gun into his belt. He gave an irritated nod of the head towards the door, motioning they they should leave. Solo did so, the Russian in tow.  


“Want another shot at getting information?” the American agent asked before wincing at his bad choice of words. Illya didn’t seem to notice; he simply nodded and they left promptly.  


The two returned to the store and broke in again. No security had been added, surprisingly enough. Illya found some stairs leading to the next floor. Solo suggested they go up and search. Illya agreed. They went up.  


That was where they found the six men waiting for them. The American and Russian agents were overthrown easily, outnumbered six to two.  


“You think you can steal from us?” one man hissed, face to face with Solo.  


“Yes, actually,” Solo replied. Then he foolishly added, “and this would be the second time stealing from you, not the fir-”  


The man cut him off by punching his stomach. Too winded to make a sound, Solo could only watch as the men grilled Illya for information on UNCLE. The Russian stayed characteristically silent and neutral, even as they threatened him with the prospect of capture and torture.  


Seeing the men distracted, Solo lashed out, kicking the man restraining him away before knocking out another with his elbow. Grabbing Illya by the arm and dragging him free before anyone realized what was happening, Solo ran to the first exit he saw.  


And that was how Solo ended up falling off a balcony.  


He was currently lying half-conscious on their apartment couch, hurting all over. He could hear Illya nearby but didn’t open his eyes. Grimacing, Solo thought back to how the hell this happened.  


Why did they think that it would be so easy? Maybe he’d gotten confident and it had rubbed off on Illya. Either way, he regretted not being more careful.  


“Are you awake?”  


The Russian’s voice cut through his thoughts, questioning but not sharp. Solo’s eyes cracked open. He saw Illya standing above him, a flicker of concern in those pale blue eyes. The eyes of a ghost.  


“Mm.”  


Solo hurt too much to speak. His vision was blurry but somehow cleared when he looked at Illya. The Russian agent’s hair was mussed and there was a bruise on his jaw, purple and ugly. He crossed his arms. He held a cigarette in one hand but for once, Solo didn’t complain.  


“How much do you remember?” Illya asked.  


“I remember falling off a goddamn balcony,” Solo muttered. He moved to rub his eye before swearing loudly- probably extremely loudly- at the pain. Illya frowned.  


“Do not worry, it is not broken. Just badly bruised and possibly sprained. Don’t move it.”  


“What did happen?” Solo mumbled after a small pause. Illya blew out a mouthful of smoke into the air before replying, “You opened the doors. We were on a balcony. Momentum carried you- and me- over the edge, and we fell. It was a five meter drop.”  


He flicked ash at nothing in particular. “You made sure I landed on you. You were knocked out instantly. Thankfully, your cushioning and distraction to our enemies allowed me to escape with you.”  


“How long has it been?” Solo asked, trying not to be offended at how his heroic move was just described as ‘cushioning’.  


“Six hours since then.”  


“So it’s …” Solo trailed off. They had left at eleven in the morning. They had taken about an hour to travel to and get into the store. “… Around six?”  


“Yes,” was the Russian’s short reply. He moved out of Solo’s line of sight. There was clinking and some running of the tap. Solo closed his eyes and laid his head back. Suddenly, something cold touched his forehead and he jumped. Wet splashed onto him.  


“Cowboy!” Illya snapped. Solo’s eyes opened. Illya was glaring at him, holding a glass of water that was half full. Solo guessed that the rest was currently soaking his chest. “You knocked me,” the Russian added, annoyed.  


“Why didn’t you warn me?” Solo countered. They glared at each other. Despite their hostility towards each other, Illya was inclined to help Solo up to sitting. The American agent winced with every move.  


“Don’t be a baby,” Illya said critically. Solo bit his lip to keep from replying. An attempt to raise his arms failed miserably.  


“Thanks for the water, pal, but I can’t even drink it,” he said sarcastically. Illya held out the glass, supporting it whilst tipping it towards Solo’s mouth. Solo stared at him. When the Russian didn’t move, Solo shrugged- which made him wince again- and drank. The water was cool and much needed.  


“Good?” Illya asked. He moved the empty glass away when Solo nodded. Solo stared at the floor, listening to Illya walk away and put the glass down. There was a moment of silence before Solo heard the sound of a lighter and soft crackle. He fell asleep to the sounds of Illya breathing smoke.  


Having woken up at half past seven, Solo had decided he wanted a hot shower to loosen his joints and ease the aching. Illya had vanished into his room which left Solo free to get up without disturbing or alerting the Russian agent. He bit back a groan as he stood, wondering what damage had been caused.  


It turned out that, despite the fall and impact Solo had suffered, nothing was broken or even sprained. He was only scraped and bruised, much to his surprise. He stood looking at his reflection in the bathroom, turning to see the bruises more clearly. His shirt lay discarded on the floor- folded neatly, as always- but he had been distracted from showering by the mottled bruises on his back. They must’ve been caused when he landed on the ground with the giant Russian on top of him. Ouch.  


With a sigh, Solo stepped into the shower. It helped a lot, and he was glad that he’d decided to shower. He felt more refreshed and stronger afterwards. However, this didn’t last long as he realized:  


He didn’t have a towel.  


Shit.  


“Illya?” he called hesitantly before silently cursing himself. Why the hell was he asking the Russian-  


“Yes?”  


The voice made Solo momentarily speechless as he struggled to find a tactful way to reply. Goddammit, he was usually so suave and smooth, where was that right now? Then again, he wasn’t usually in such a compromising situation.  


“Pal, could you pass me something from the closet?” he asked. There was a pause before Illya replied in a deadpan voice, “you forgot towel. Didn’t you, cowboy?”  


“Yes,” Solo sighed. No use dancing around it; Illya had guessed instantly. He waited for a minute before he heard the Russian return. To Solo’s shock, the door opened and he gave an extremely un-Solo-like yelp.  


“Illya! What are you-”  


“Relax, cowboy. My eyes are shielded,” Illya said dryly. True to his word, he held his cap before his face as he handed a towel to Solo. “Besides,” the Russian added as he left, “it’s not like there is anything worth seeing.”  


Solo felt extremely offended and humiliated standing there, glaring at the space where Illya had been.  


This Russian man was harder to seduce than anyone Solo had ever taken a fancy to, but he was determined to get Illya to like him back.


	3. Play Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo and Illya find a target but it’s harder getting to him than they think. 
> 
> Solo also has to deal with Sanders's requests and Illya’s unpredictable anger issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A better summary would be ‘NapKin refs. Plus Illya is an angry little (giant) muffin’. This also might be the longest chapter so far. 
> 
> Fun fact- I write all this on my iPod, so I use shortcuts for their names. Illya is ‘Ru’, short for Russia (as he’s Russian). Equally, the American Solo is ‘USA’. 
> 
> Also, has anyone seen the video of Armie and Henry playing Never Have I Ever (it’s on Buzzfeed). Because one of the questions is about having a drink thrown on them; Armie hasn't while Henry has. I can assure you guys that the drink-throwing scene in this chapter was written before I watched that video XD 
> 
> The story about Illya’s scar is a genuine one, created by Armie Hammer (it’s not my own headcanon). 
> 
> One last thing- I watched the movie halfway through writing this chapter and I've added some extra details that were in the movie to the characters (for example, Illya’s shaky hands), as these details weren't shown in the trailers (which are what I was writing from). Enjoy!

“Cowboy, you’re a terrible actor.”  


“What?”  


The two were currently posing as- much to Illya’s dislike- a couple, as their target was attending a restaurant on ‘couples night’. The conversation had gone as such: 

_“I’ve found a lead,” Solo said. Illya looked up from where he was sitting. The American continued with, “except we’re going to do something bad.”_  


_“What?” Illya said, raising an eyebrow. Solo continued._  


_“He’s attending a restaurant, except they’re holding something called ‘couples night’. Our target-” he checked the information- “is fifty-eight and British. His name is Simon Moore. He’s going with his wife, Denise.”_  


_“Couples night?” Illya asked before a shadow fell over his face. “You aren’t implying …”_  


_“I’m afraid so,” Solo sighed. “We’re going to have to pretend to be a couple.”_

“I mean,” Illya explained, “act like we are actually married. Act professional. Classy. All things you boast of being.”  


Solo snorted softly. He looked down at the new silver band on his left ring finger. A fake wedding ring, matching the one that Illya was now wearing too. Somehow it didn’t feel right to be using his Russian associate this way but they had both agreed to it, which stopped Solo feeling as wrong.  


“Good evening, gentlemen,” a waiter said, approaching and smiling. Solo had a flashback to the cafe-punching incident and didn’t want that to happen again. He saw the waiter’s eyes flick between the convincing wedding rings before the young man smiled again and handed out menus.  


“What drinks would you two sirs be interested in?” he asked, looking to Solo first. Solo ordered a glass of wine. Illya ordered water, no ice. The waiter left and Illya crossed his arms, leaning back. The bruise on his cheek was thankfully faded.  


Solo watched as Illya’s blue eyes traveled across the room to where their target was sat; Solo avoiding looking at Moore too to avoid suspicion. When Illya looked back at Solo, his mouth was a grim line.  


“At least look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Solo muttered.  


“How do I do that?” Illya hissed. “You are the worst partner possible. Look at the way you’re acting. I am glad this is not real.”  


Solo was stung. To distract himself from the Russian’s harsh words, he watched their target. Moore was talking to a waiter before, to Solo’s surprise, he paid and stood up with his wife.  


“He’s leaving,” he whispered in alarm to Illya. Illya looked across and something in his face changed. Turning back to Solo, he slammed his fist down on the table, shaking the glasses, and shouted, “You always do this!”  


Like in the cafe, many went silent and looked at them. Solo was startled.  


“What did I do?” he asked. Illya’s face twisted into an angry, hurt expression.  


“I don’t know why I even try to stay with you,” he hissed and there was a collective gasp around them. The Russian agent picked up his glass of water and threw it over Solo before leaving, storming through the door after Moore had left. Everyone stared at Solo, who was stunned.  


“Wait!” he cried, pushing his chair back. Tossing a few dollar bills down, he raced after Illya. Exiting through the doors, Solo almost crashed into the agent outside. Illya’s face was oddly calm as he regarded Solo.  


“What did I do?” Solo asked again.  


“Cowboy,” Illya said, “you really need to learn what improving is.”  


“Improvising …?” Solo broke off, sighing. “Let me guess. You ordered water solely in case you had to throw it on me.”  


“Yes,” Illya said before waving his phone at Solo. There was a photo of Moore getting into his car with the numberplate clear. The Russian agent handed his phone to Solo, saying, “I saw he was leaving. We were mid-meal. There was no way we could leave without suspicion. So I created a way.”  


“Did you really have to throw water at me?” Solo asked, gesturing at his soaked hair and clothes. Illya shrugged.  


“It was needed to make the argument more real,” he said, taking back his phone and turning it off. As they walked away from the restaurant, Solo began to laugh. The whole scenario- the fake marriage, the argument- it was so ridiculous. Even as they got into a cab back to their apartment, he was still smiling. Illya remained stony-faced and actually looked slightly bemused by Solo’s amusement.  


Entering the apartment, they split up. Solo went to change into dryer clothes. His good suit could have been ruined by the water. Most of it had hit him in the face. He didn’t know if that was good or bad.  


Dressed more comfortably, Solo walked to Illya’s room and began to speak as he opened the door.  


“Do you think-”  


He stopped upon seeing Illya. The Russian agent was sat on his bed, tending to the wound on his arm. His shirt was only on one side of his torso, half of it hanging off so he could clean his arm better. Solo swallowed and tried to keep his eyes above the neck.  


“Yes?” Illya said, his eyes staying on the gunshot wound he was disinfecting. When Solo still said nothing, he raised his head to look at the American. Then Illya twisted around to look at the wall behind himself before returning to face Solo. “What are you staring at?”  


“Um- nothing,” Solo said, clearing his throat. “I was just, er-”  


He leaned on the doorframe casually and looked at the ceiling. He could still see Illya out at the edge of his vision. The Russian was dressing the wound. “-I was wondering when you wanted to act on our lead?”  


“Oh, him,” Illya replied, understanding. He tied off the bandage using his free hand and his teeth before lifting his gaze to Solo. Feeling like it was appropriate and polite, Solo lowered his eyes to match the gaze. His eyes fought not to travel further down as Illya broke eye contact and shrugged his shirt back on. The Russian buttoned it slowly, his expression thoughtful.  


“Maybe tomorrow,” he suggested. There was a moment of silence before he said, “what _are_ you staring at, cowboy?”  


“Just thought I saw something on the wall,” Solo lied. Illya turned again to look and raised an eyebrow.  


“There is nothing. You are paranoid. Now, if you do not mind, I am going to sleep now.”  


The Russian agent stood and closed his curtains, partly ignoring the American agent watching him. Moving to the door, Illya gave a curt nod and said a short “goodnight, cowboy”. The door closed. The last thing Solo saw before the door closed was a slim silver band, still on Illya’s ring finger.  


Illya gone gave Solo a chance to think about his feelings. Why had he stared so much? Why was he acting like a teenager seeing a Playboy magazine for the first time? Over _Illya!_  


Goddammit. That Russian agent screwed with Solo’s head more than any woman ever had. Before Illya, the thought of men had never crossed Solo’s man. He’d considered himself a … ladies’ man, if he was honest. But then Illya had come along and thrown the entirety of Solo’s life off balance.  


Solo sat at his desk and stared at the wood, thinking hard. Illya didn’t hate him but he was far from liking him, that was clear. Bunching up his fist, Solo slammed it down on the wood.  


“Why do I like you?” he said aloud, picking up his phone and looking at the home screen photo. His heart almost _hurt_ as he looked at Illya. With a sigh, Solo clicked off the cell and threw it onto his bed, standing again and walking to look in his mirror.  


Gone was the confident womanizer of yesteryear. No, this was the new Solo. The one torn apart inside by his messed-up feelings for this goddamn Russian man.  


Solo didn’t know if he hated the new him or was just unused to it yet. He decided to sleep on it.  


The next morning, Solo was woken by the sounds of footsteps outside his bedroom door. They paused, as if whoever it was thought about entering, but moved away as they seemed to think better of it. Sitting up, Solo neatened his hair and slipped on a dressing gown, his hands fumbling as he tied it due to distraction. He was thinking of those footsteps. Then he left to find a drink.  


Illya was sat in the kitchen and didn’t even look up as he entered. On the contrary, the Russian seemed to concentrate more on his phone and something in his hand.  


“What have you got there?” Solo asked, trying to see but unable to look past the Russian’s back. Without speaking or looking at the American, Illya tossed something at him. Solo caught it. It was a brown leather wallet with a few cards inside. One was-  


“Is this Moore’s?” Solo exclaimed, looking at the ID with the familiar face. Illya nodded and continued poring over his phone. It emitted a soft ping and he breathed a sigh of something like relief. Standing, Illya walked to Solo and showed him the screen.  


“What?” Solo said blankly. He noticed it was a map. With a location pinned out. A smile grew on his face. “Did you get his address?”  


“Yes.”  


“Are we going to pay him a visit?”  


“Definitely. But first, I need shower. And you need to look presentable.”  


“I’m always presentable,” Solo argued.  


“You may think so, cowboy, but your vanity clouds your judgment,” Illya said cuttingly before he closed the bathroom door. Disappointed at his failure to get the Russian to compliment him, Solo went and picked out a smart suit to take his mind off it. Next, he got a glass of whiskey, something he didn’t drink much but felt like he needed it. He could hear the shower running and closed his eyes, barring his imagination from conjuring any image.  


Ten minutes later, Illya emerged in a white undershirt and black pants, arm bandages fresh, running a hand through his damp hair. He shot Solo a disapproving look.  


“You should not drink so early,” he commented. Solo shrugged and finished his second glass before his eyes were drawn to Illya as the Russian pulled on his signature turtleneck sweater. Solo grabbed his keys and unlocked the apartment door as Illya put on his cap and brown jacket, zipping it up to his chest.  


“Shall we go?” Solo said, grinning. Illya nodded. Much to his dislike, they stopped on the drive there so Solo could get a drink.  


“I can easily make you a drink,” Illya argued as Solo insisted on buying one. The American shrugged as he ordered a coffee. During the wait, he noticed Illya’s arms were crossed. The Russian was tapping his finger slightly and there was a clenched muscle in his jaw. Bad sign.  


“Could you possibly, um- hurry it up?” Solo asked, knowing what the Russian’s tap meant. The barista threw him a restrained dirty look.  


“We’re going as fast as we can, sir,” she said with forced politeness. They seemed to take even longer now that he’d asked. When they finally got back into their car, Solo saw that Illya’s hand was shaking as he held onto the wheel.  


“Are you fit to drive, peril?” he asked, slightly nervously.  


“I’m fine,” Illya said but there was anger in his voice. He sarcastically added, “after all, your coffee is more important than our mission.”  


Sheepish, Solo looked down at the coffee he had as Illya continued to drive. The guilt didn’t stop him from drinking it anyway. They managed to find Moore’s estate without much difficulty. The ‘British Nazi’, as Illya called him, looked like he lived in luxury. Large house, lavish grounds with fountains and a well-kept garden. On the end of the long gravel drive to the house was a gate. The whole estate was surrounded by a wall. The two waited until they saw Moore and his wife leave.  


“There are security cameras,” Illya whispered. They had parked nearby, in view of the gates but not close enough to be conspicuous. Solo frowned. They could either crash straight through the gates and be caught by the camera or go over the wall.  


“We should sneak in,” he suggested, pointing. “Over the wall, there. Around the cameras.”  


“There may be security patrolling the grounds,” Illya replied. Solo smiled and patted his arm.  


“You can take care of them, can't you, peril?” he said brightly. Illya nodded slowly. They checked their guns before slipping from the car, keeping low to the ground as they avoided the cameras and gates altogether. Solo watched as Illya hoisted himself over the fence, climbing the wall like it was nothing. He heard the Russian land on the other side.  


“What are you waiting for?” Illya hissed from the other side. Solo groaned. He wasn’t as tall and his legs weren’t as long. Nevertheless, he took a run up and managed to get his hands onto the top of the wall. With a minute of determined struggling, he used upper-body strength to pull himself up. Then momentum, his enemy since he fell off the balcony, carried him over the wall. Solo landed painfully on his back and elbows next to Illya, who snorted.  


“Smooth as always, cowboy,” he commented dryly. Partially winded, Solo got up, wincing.  


“You couldn’t have caught me?” he asked hoarsely.  


“You are not a damsel in distress,” Illya said, crossing his arms rather smugly. Solo eased a crick out of his neck before shaking out his arms. They moved fast along the land, grateful for the thick cover of trees. Unfortunately, the last ten meter stretch to the house was open and easily visible.  


“Shit,” Solo said helpfully. Illya crouched, his eyes flicking wildly to see where the closest vantage point was. He made out the front door before seeing an open window on the second floor. Motioning with his hand to Solo, Illya began a sprint towards the house.  


“Illya- wait!” Solo called in a whisper, following fast, glancing to see if anyone was around. He saw the Russian reach the house and, unbelievably, scale the bricks like he did the wall, fast and efficient. Illya disappeared through the window. Steeling himself, Solo started climbing. He managed to get halfway up before slipping. Just in time, Illya leaned out the window and his fist tightened on Solo’s arm. A brief flail later and he had pulled the American agent through the window. Illya dropped Solo onto the floor unceremoniously.  


“What are we looking for exactly?” Solo asked from where he was lying, slightly dazed, on the floor. Illya began to look everywhere, searching every compartment there was in the room.  


“Information on THRUSH,” he replied shortly. Solo stood up and opened the closet doors. A frown fell over his face which Illya picked up on.  


“Have you found something?” he asked, moving across. Solo’s head twitched in a shake  


“No, just … for a rich man, our Simon has surprisingly bad dress sense.”  


“Priorities, cowboy,” Illya said cuttingly, “fucking _priorities_.”  


Sighing, Solo went to close the closet when a briefcase caught his eye. Bending, he pulled it out from its hiding place and his eyes widened.  


“Bingo,” he announced, a smile forming. Illya looked over from where he was searching under the bed and his eyebrows raised by a fraction.  


“Not bad, cowboy,” he praised. Solo’s proud smile vanished when Illya added, “for an amateur.”  


“Oh, come on, that isn’t fair,” Solo said. Illya shrugged before he took the briefcase and opened it. Stacked papers with all the information they needed lay inside. Illya sighed and reluctantly said, “as I said, cowboy, not bad.”  


Solo gladly accepted the compliment as they escaped the property. Back at the apartment, he was on his phone when a notification popped up. It was an email from Sanders.  


Solo opened it cautiously, glancing across the room to where the Russian in question sat going over the THRUSH files. The email stated a very simple yet daunting task: for Solo to ask Illya about his past. Sanders was suggesting that they get to know each other better, as people as well as agents … which was basically a ploy for Sanders find out more about the KGB agent.  


Sanders presented the task as an easy one. However, he wasn’t the one having to ask the volatile agent about his past. Solo was the one asking; he knew how Illya’s childhood was a touchy subject.  


“So, peril,” he began. Illya grunted to show he was listening. Solo continued hesitantly. “I was wondering, uh … how- how did you get that scar?”  


“Scar?”  


Illya’s voice was neutral and gave away no inclination of anger. That may be a good sign.  


“The one by your eye,” Solo said, gesturing at his own face. Illya shrugged.  


“I was a boy when I started my training. The other boys did not like me. They demonstrated this with their fists.”  


Solo winced. He couldn’t imagine Illya ever being beaten up. But, as the Russian had said, he was a boy. A defenseless child.  


“I learned about your father,” Solo ventured carefully. “And Siberia.”  


Illya said nothing, his face betraying no emotion, but his hands ceased in sorting through the files. Staring down, he seemed to be listening closely. His finger began to tap slowly. Solo saw the warning sign but attempted to continue.  


“What did he do so wrong that supposedly shamed your whole family?” Solo asked as a genuine question. It was only as the words left his mouth that he realized how bad it sounded.  


For Illya, it was the last straw. He stood up, violently pushing his chair back so that it fell over. Then he ran at Solo, his hands finding the American’s throat. Solo found himself slammed against the wall with the Russian’s face an inch from his. There was so much cold hatred and fury like blue fire in those eyes as Illya tightened his fingers. Solo’s airway was closed off as Illya choked him.  


Without warning, Illya let go and locked himself in the bathroom, leaving Solo gasping for breath.  


Inside the bathroom, Illya looked down at his shaking hands. He needed to control his anger. He hadn’t attacked an ally since he was young. To have a psychotic episode now was unprofessional and childish of him. He needed to _control his anger_. But he didn’t know how.  


“Illya, I’m sorry,” Solo called from outside. His voice was strained. Illya closed his eyes. He had almost killed the American. A sudden surge of rage made him light-headed and he had the urge to finish the job.  


“No!” Illya growled, holding the wrist of his right hand tight to stop him from opening the door. It was as if he couldn’t control his own hand. The trembling didn’t stop and the anger didn’t fade. Illya turned the faucet and splashed his face with the cold water. Lifting his head, he saw his reflection and the scar. Bitter hate rose again, memories resurfacing.  


_Stupid Kury. Look at him, he’s already bleeding. We’ve only hit him twice._  


Turning, Illya looked at the door. There was a man out there, waiting for him. Solo was the perfect target. Right now, Illya didn’t care if he killed the American agent. He looked down at his shaking hand which slowly clenched into a fist.  


Then Illya reached for the door handle.


	4. Not Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the UNCLE soundtrack writing the very start of this and the end of Ch3. The two songs I listened to were the awesome ‘Take You Down’ theme (used in most trailers), and the ‘Laced Drinks (Betrayal, Pt. II)’ song for the angry-Illya bits. For the angsty bits, I may have listened to Say Something ._. (IT’S SAD, OKAY, IT WORKS.) 
> 
> I also made up Illya’s backstory / childhood. Plus I tried to add more of a reason for Illya to do what he does, rather than just anger. 
> 
> I mentioned the Never Have I Ever game earlier; Armie said (during the game) that he got into a fight with a kid, then they became friends. I incorporated that into Illya’s past. 
> 
> Plus, say a temporary hi to Gaby! And angst. NapKin angst. As in, Illya actually is going to (and doesn’t want to) hurt Solo and Solo is worried for him. Because I've written action and (some) humor and I wanted some angst. 
> 
> THIS IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. (It's also the shortest one.)

Through the red haze of anger, Illya heard voices from his childhood. Children’s voices, speaking Russian. The boys who had tormented him.  


_“Look, it’s the new kid.”_  


_“He looks weak.”_  


_“Wasn’t he the one with the criminal father? What was it, Kuryakin?”_  


_“You’re right! Hey, Kury! How’s your father?”_  


_Twelve year old Illya, small for his age, tried to ignore the boys as he walked past them. He couldn’t get away, however, when the tallest of boys grabbed his shoulder roughly._  


_“Hey, Shorty-akin. Where do you think you’re going?”_  


_Illya couldn’t reply as he was being shoved onto the ground, into the mud. He landed on his back and they laughed, their piercing voices like vultures._  


_Thirteen year old Illya, with the cut face, deep enough to leave a scar by his eye, unable to say anything for fear of a more severe beating._  


But then came fourteen year old Illya, walking past those boys. He was taller now, almost the tallest of all of them, but it changed nothing. He was one against six. The leader of the gang, the tallest, decided to step in his way. But Illya was sick of it. The taller boy was dealt a dislocated shoulder and a broken nose. Illya was left with split knuckles, a bust lip and a couple of broken fingers. Not only that, he gained respect and a new friend: ironically, he had befriended the taller boy.  


But then his friend had a run-in with Americans and something went wrong. They had killed his friend. It was after Illya had joined the KGB for a few years when he found out. His friend’s death was never explained.  


It was the Americans that had killed his friend. That was what had been drilled into Illya and he believed it. Illya’s hand shook again; there was an American outside this door. There was revenge, ready for the taking-  


“Peril? Are you okay?”  


Illya’s hand stopped turning the door handle. The concerned voice broke through the red mist that was clouding his vision.  


What was he thinking? Solo hadn’t killed his friend. He just happened to American. Illya sank to the floor. Both hands shook now and he knew he wouldn’t be able to control the anger building up inside him. He was going to hurt Solo and he was going to hurt him badly.  


“Illya?” Solo called.  


“No, cowboy. I am not okay,” Illya said, his voice cracking uncharacteristically, and he meant it.  


On the other side of the door, Solo’s heart ached. Hearing the usually tough Russian admit how he wasn’t okay … he needed to fix it somehow.  


Solo ran to his phone and grabbed it. Sitting down so he could concentrate, he tapped in a number as quick as possible. It rang three times before it picked up.  


“Napoleon?” Gaby asked, sounding surprised.  


“Gaby, I need your help,” Solo said quickly.  


“I’m stuck in town, there are cars blockading me in. I’m sorry, but-”  


“No- no, just talk to me,” Solo interrupted. He could feel Illya’s silence like a knife. “It’s Illya. There’s something wrong with him.”  


“What?” Gaby exclaimed. There was real worry in her voice. Solo looked at the bathroom door.  


“He’s locked himself away.”  


“What did you do?” she demanded. Solo whispered his next words.  


“I was ordered by Sanders to learn more about Illya’s past. But you know Illya … he doesn’t take kindly to prying, especially to do with his parents.”  


“Mm.”  


“He got angry at me, and-”  


“Slow down,” Gaby said. “Tell me what happened with detail.”  


“Well, I- he tried to choke me,” Solo began. He heard her intake of breath. “But he left me there; he could’ve killed me but he didn’t. Now he’s locked himself away and he won’t come out.”  


“Why do you want me to help?”  


“I just need your help, Gaby. I don’t know how to deal with this.”  


There was sound of shattering and Solo bolted to his feet. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”  


“Wait, no!” Gaby protested. “You can’t tell me something like that and just-”  


Solo apologized as he hung up on her. His phone rang again even as he left it behind, going back to the door.  


“Peril?” Solo asked softly.  


“I broke the mirror.”  


The sentence was so unexpected that Solo almost laughed. It was the bitterness in Illya’s voice that stopped him. Instead, Solo attempted to draw him out.  


“Open the door. Talk to me.”  


Illya was silent. Solo hit the door with his fist. “Talk to me, dammit!” he shouted. There was a crunch of glass as Illya moved, maybe sitting down. It sounded as if he placed a hand against the inside of the door.  


“Open the door,” Solo said again.  


“I can’t.”  


“Why not?”  


“Because I may kill you if I do.”  


Solo was almost stunned to silence. Illya didn’t elaborate. Tentative, Solo continued.  


“You’re that angry? You said once you had a personality disorder. Is that what makes you so volatile?”  


“Yes.”  


“Can I help?”  


“No.”  


They both fell silent, each sat with their back to the door. Illya looked down at his knuckles, bloody and sliced from punching the mirror. He thought of his mission. _Kill the American if necessary_ , he had been told. The word _kill_ ran through Illya’s head until it was the only thing he could think of. His anger grew alongside his frustration. _The American is in the way_ , a voice whispered. _You don't need him. It would be so easy to get rid of him._

No, he couldn’t.

But then Illya had heard Solo talking to Gaby. _Asking for help_. For some reason, this had sent a ripple of anger and the need to hit something through him. The closest breakable thing was the mirror. Now he sat amidst shards of shattered glass.  


Solo was opening his mouth to speak when the lock clicked. He stood quickly, turning on his heels to face the door. It opened and there was Illya, looking at him with an expression that looked as if he wanted to both kill and save Solo. The Russian stood silently watching, his eyes blank and shadowed. Solo saw blood dripping from his left hand, saw the glass on the floor behind him.  


“You broke that mirror pretty badly,” he joked, giving a choked laugh. Illya didn’t smile. Not did he even react to Solo’s words. He just said, “I am so sorry. But this is my mission. I must do this.”  


Solo blinked, confused.  


“Do what?” he asked, forcing one of his smiles to lighten the situation. That smile faltered when he heard the stifled sound of a silenced gun. Looking down, he first saw the hand holding the gun then, further down, the spreading red patch in his own white shirt. 

_Oh._

There was a silver ring on the hand holding the gun. Solo looked at his own hand, strangely distant. The light glinted off his ring as he took a step back.  


Solo’s eyes were wide and surprised as he looked at Illya, shock written across his face. He took another step back.  


“Illya?” he asked. Maybe his voice didn’t even make a sound. To Solo, all he could hear was his own heartbeat and the roar of blood in his ears as feelings rushed through his head. Emptiness. Anger. The black bile-like bitterness of betrayal.  


Illya lowered the gun. His cap was pulled low now so Solo couldn’t see his eyes. He looked down at his left hand, the opposite hand to where he, as a Russian, would have worn it. Then Illya looked up so that his eyes met Solo’s. How the man was still standing was a miracle. Red blossomed from the gunshot, a stark and brutal reality.  


Looking Solo in the eye, Illya took the ring and threw it on the floor so that Solo saw it all clearly. The American agent opened his mouth to speak. No sound came out this time, or maybe it did. Illya didn’t speak either way.  


Solo looked down again, moving a hand to press against his side. It came away red and wet. This was real. All real. This was no surreal dream nor a nightmare come true. Solo looked back at Illya, his heart aching again but with pain, with _hurt_ now.  


Then gravity came rushing back and pulled Solo down towards a black abyss.


	5. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solo has to face the reality that Illya just tried to kill him, while Illya has to deal with the fact that he almost killed his partner in a fit of rage. Gaby is there to stitch them up, as well as reveal some secrets about each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shortness of the last chapter! I wrote it between 1am and 6am (what is sleep?) so I got tired towards the end and may have rushed it. I promise you guys that this chapter isn't rushed! I mean, it's hopefully more satisfactory than the last chapter. I wrote most of this chapter on a 9 hour plane journey, after all. 
> 
> (I write all this on Notes on my phone and it's starting to glitch ... I do have 790+ notes, though.) 
> 
> Hey look a wild BREAKABLE NAPOLEON SOLO reference. Also apparently Illya has OEDIPUS COMPLEX so voila, reference. 
> 
> If it isn't clear, this fic is based around the storyline of the movie (e.g. nuclear weapons, Victoria Vinciguerra, Illya’s and Gaby's dance scene), just _modern day_. (It makes it easier to write about phones and stuff.) That also explains how, in this fic’s scene with music, it mentions how Illya and Gaby danced to that song. 
> 
> One last thing: This chapter is a goddamn simile and metaphor overload and I have no idea why.

Solo was floating in a cool dark sea. Everything was black, like he was in a room with no light, or a sea of ink. Looking down, he saw himself in monochrome. The only color was the shimmering red of the liquid beads that drifted up from his side. He touched it gingerly and a spasm shot through him. Pain ripped through Solo like an electric shock-  


He sat up gasping. Gaby moved back to avoid being head-butted. She was holding a gauze pad and ointment.  


“Wow,” she said, “I heard this stuff stings but _wow_ , that must’ve hurt if it woke you up-”  


“Where’s Illya?” Solo demanded, his voice hoarse.  


“I put him in the bathroom,” Gaby said, cocking her head at the door. The door was barricaded with four chairs. “Can’t be too careful,” she explained when she saw Solo’s incredulous expression. The mechanic finished dressing the gunshot wound and allowed Solo to button his shirt again.  


“Careful with that. The bullet didn’t go deep and I got it out, but it could get infected,” she warned. Solo stared at her as if just noticing her presence.  


“When did you get here?” he asked.  


“I drove as fast as I could after you hung up. I found Illya standing over you; you were unconscious and bleeding on the floor. I managed to knock him out by throwing my shoe really hard at his head. Then I locked him in the bathroom. He was just … looking at you, holding the gun by his side.”  


“He said sorry,” Solo said breathlessly. “He- he apologized before he shot me.”  


“Do you know why he shot you?” Gaby asked gently, helping Solo stand. He looked towards the bathroom door. Then he shook his head honestly.  


“I know he’s angry. He also said that it was his ‘mission’ … but he _shot_ me. That … that’s unforgivable.”  


“Napoleon!” Gaby said sharply. Solo looked at her, startled at her outburst. He watched with growing trepidation as she went to the bathroom door and moved all the chairs away. Her hand reached out then, opening the door. Illya was looking at them when it opened. There was blood in his hair and his eyes were hollow, like the color of a drowned man’s blue lips.  


“Cowboy,” he said softly. Solo gave a stiff nod, murmuring, “Peril.”  


Gaby sighed and brushed back a strand of hair before turning to Solo. “I’m sorting out this mess you two have made, starting with you. Look, Solo, I’ve seen the way you look at Illya. And your feelings are obvious.”  


“I- what?” Solo protested, rather weakly. Illya didn’t even look at Gaby when she turned to him. Those icy eyes stared somewhere past Solo’s left ear.  


To Illya, Gaby said, “I don't know how you feel towards Solo, but you actually relax around him. And I know for a fact that you don’t love me. I’m just kind of like a mother figure to you. I don’t know if that’s some creepy form of Oedipus complex but I’m guessing it’s because …” her voice softened in its business-like tone. “… I’m not your type.”  


This time, Illya did react. His head lifted like a predator seeing injured prey, an opportunity to pounce, to kill. Solo saw the Russian’s fingers twitch, as if they ached to wrap around someone’s throat. Instead of attacking, Illya spoke in a quiet, deadly voice.  


“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his accent thicker than Solo had ever heard it. Gaby crossed her arms in a ‘you know exactly what I mean’ way. She held Illya’s gaze even though he was far taller, stronger and his eyes held the witheringly cold bite of winter frost. Finally, it was the Russian who broke eye contact, looking down at his feet. Not once did his eyes even flick to Solo.  


“I’m confused, Gaby. What do you mean by type?” Solo asked. She sighed again.  


“I’m not his type. As in … my being female, I’m not his type.”  


Oh. _Oh._  


This was news to Solo. Illya avoided looking at them. He almost looked defeated, staring at his feet like a man about to hang would view his noose.  


“I didn’t-” Solo began, but words failed him. He just didn’t know what to say.  


“Just don’t speak, cowboy,” Illya said and there was that old Russian again, with the glittering glacier-esque eyes and sarcastic tone.  


“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Gaby said, sounding like a triumphant mother after drawing a confession from a lying child. She grabbed her hat and bag.  


“Are you leaving?” Illya and Solo asked at the time and she turned, smiling slightly.  


“No need to fight over me, boys. I’m just here to help. I know neither of you are particularly interested in me anyway.”  


“How did you know?” Illya blurted, earning a glance from Solo. Gaby seemed to think it through before replying.  


“I just … did. You act different around women. I’m surprised, Solo, that you didn’t see it too. Maybe you’d have acted sooner if you knew.”  


Solo opened his mouth to speak and she raised a finger. “Before you ask how I know, it was easy. You look at him with more longing than any woman I’ve seen you look at. It’s been entertaining watching you two fail to act, though.”  


With a final flick of her fingers, Gaby sauntered out triumphantly, only pausing to change the record on the old record player they still had, leaving the two men standing awkwardly together. Solo cleared his throat and Illya’s gaze shifted to anything but the American.  


Then the music started. Familiar notes started and Illya looked sharply at the record player. It was the song he and Gaby had danced to, just a week ago.  


“I am not dancing with you,” Illya said as a smile formed on Solo’s face.  


“Your loss, peril,” Solo said. It seemed like everything was back to normal. Solo put his hands in his pockets oh-so-casually as he went to pour himself some whiskey. Then he slyly said, “so. Men, huh?”  


“You can talk, cowboy. _Me_?” Illya shot back, though his face colored slightly at Solo’s words. Solo, however, was not affected by the Russian’s words. The American simply laughed and turned his glass round in his hands, not drinking.  


“I guess,” he said thoughtfully, “our secrets had to be revealed some time.”  


“Mm.”  


“And Gaby knew all along …” Solo sighed, scratching his head. He wondered how much else that girl knew that they didn’t.  


The day continued as if nothing had happened. Neither spoke to either other differently, despite what they had both just found out. Solo made no advances and Illya still showed no signs of interest. They acted as if it was a normal day. As if the anger had never occurred.  


Their only acknowledgment of Illya’s fit of rage was when Solo insisted on giving medical attention to the Russian’s bloody knuckles.  


“I am fine, cowboy,” Illya said stubbornly, watching from a few meters away as Solo pulled out gauze and antiseptic.  


“You just shot me,” Solo said, raising his eyebrow. “Therefore, I’m the victim and think I should get my way.”  


“I was shot too,” Illya pointed out.  


“Yes, but that was only your arm, and you weren’t shot point-blank by someone you trusted.”  


“It is your fault that I was shot. You distracted me.”  


“Possibly. But the fact remains that _you_ shot _me_. And stop arguing already.”  


“Why is helping me so important to you anyway?” Illya asked but he let Solo take his hand anyway. As the American dabbed at the split skin, he said, “it’s not important to me. It’s beneficial.”  


“How?”  


“It’s beneficial to me because it lets me be closer to you.”  


To Solo’s delight, Illya flushed and his lips tightened into a thinner line than usual.  


“Flattery does not make me attracted to you,” Illya said, his voice betraying his discomfort. Solo wound a long strip of gauze slowly around the Russian’s hand, taking his time and care. When done, he lifted Illya’s hand to his lips like when he politely greeted women. Unsurprisingly, Illya wrenched his arm back, holding his hand protectively. Solo chuckled.  


“Easy, peril. I’m not going to eat you.”  


The Russian glowered. He turned and Solo caught him by the arm. He felt his thumb dig into bandage and regretted his action. Illya pulled away again, this time holding his arm. He winced from the pain shooting up his arm like fire. Stupid cowboy, grabbing his bullet wound.  


“I’m sorry,” Solo apologized instantly and it sounded genuine for once. He held out a hand. “Hey, let me look at that. It’s the least I can do after grabbing it.”  


Illya wanted to say no but his arm was hurting now, throbbing with pain. With a low and almost inaudible “fine”, he allowed Solo to lead him to the couch. The Russian didn’t look at Solo. His eyes remained fixed on everything but the American.  


“Let’s see,” Solo muttered. Listening to the song looping in the background, he unwrapped the bandages. Solo found the wound clean and free of blood, fresh skin around it. It was healing slowly, he announced. Sitting close to the Russian, Solo could feel his heat and wondered if Illya was thinking the same about him.  


“You are not as breakable as I thought,” Illya said softly, almost to himself. He reached out and pushed Solo’s jacket back so the outline of the bandages under his shirt was visible. Solo was weirded out by the entire scene.  


“You, uh, feeling okay?” Solo asked. There was that phrase again, ringing in his ears. _‘Peril? Are you okay?’_ Déjà vu there.  


“Yes,” Illya said. He moved his hand away, eyes lingering for a second on the bandages. On the damage he had caused. Illya let Solo pull him up but hesitated when Solo took his hands, waving them slowly to the music. Like Gaby had done, except she had used his own hands to-  


A sharp and familiar pain flashed through Illya’s head and his lip lifted, almost in a snarl. _To slap him_ , he finished silently. She must have told Solo about it, and he was doing the same.  


“Do not do that,” he snapped. Solo smiled and continued, as Gaby had done. At least she was a good dancer. Cowboy here just …  


Illya had to admit, Solo wasn't a bad dancer once he got into the song.  


But then the American used the other hand to slap him and Illya saw red. Without thinking, he did what Gaby had done to him and rugby-tackled Solo, knocking the man along with a chair over. They both landed heavily.  


“Christ, peril,” Solo said, winded, but he still managed to choke a laugh out. He pushed against Illya’s chest. “Hey, giant. Get off. Your elbow is almost in my injury.”  


“It’s not like I want to stay,” Illya spat and pushed himself to his feet, deliberately kneeing Solo in the groin as he did so. Not one to let go so easily, Solo was on his feet fairly quickly. He stood in front of Illya when the Russian went to turn the music off.  


“Gaby did this,” Illya said dryly. “I did not like it.”  


“Ah, but as I remember, peril, you two got a little closer after that,” Solo smiled.  


“She was drunk with over-drinking vodka.”  


“The correct grammar would be ‘from’ over-drinking vodka-” Solo closed his mouth when he saw the murderous glint in Illya’s eyes.  


“Your point is?” Illya eventually growled, eying Solo. “Oh, yes, I remember. You have a little _thing_ for me.”  


“Yes, and you me,” Solo said cheerfully. Illya said nothing but his fists clenched. The American patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, peril. It’ll all be normal again tomorrow. We can pay Mr. Moore a visit again, if you’d like.”  


Illya gave one of his enigmatic and unhelpful grunts. He didn’t give Solo a second look as he turned off the music then strode across the room, picked up an entire bottle of vodka and went over to his bedroom.  


“Who’s getting drunk on vodka now?” Solo called.  


“Shut your mouth, cowboy!” was the angry reply. A smile played over Solo’s lips as he had one more glass of whiskey.  


Illya’s armor maybe be stubborn and strong but it was starting to break. Solo lay on his back in his bed, wincing as it sent a streak of pain through his side. Damn that Russian for shooting him. But maybe it was a good thing, at it had led to Gaby revealing those secrets.  


“Who’d have thought,” Solo murmured, “that a good-looking, tall Russian man like Illya has no interest in women.”  


He fell asleep smiling at the thought.  


Illya didn’t fall asleep smiling, nor did he wake up smiling. He left his room early at six in the morning, grabbing his (unopened) vodka bottle, only stopping to glance into Solo’s room. The American was asleep on his back, the sheets falling half off the bed. A compromising and unflattering view, Illya thought. Solo’s shirt was caught underneath him, revealing- Illya’s heart jolted, for some reason- skin and, above that, bandages. The sight of those red-stained bandages made Illya’s mouth sour with regret.  


He had _shot_ Solo. Apologizing would never change that and it was something neither of them would ever forget. If Gaby hadn’t helped …  


Illya turned away from the door, making his way to the kitchen where he unceremoniously poured a glass of vodka and drank it fast, like Gaby often would. He didn’t want to finish the bottle particularly, nor get drunk so early, so he set it down and went back to his room. Solo visited him at eight.  


“You’re up early,” the American commented. He was already dressed and holding the files they had stolen from Moore, standing in the doorway, perfect and gentlemanly. As always.  


Illya delivered his usual taciturn response of “Mm”. Then he stood up, imposing and poker-faced. He had changed his normal jacket for a black one while Solo was asleep. That way, if any witnesses had seen them last time they ‘visited’ Moore, they would be looking for a brown-jacket-and-cap wearing man, not a dark-jacket-with-no-cap man.  


“Do you need to stop for coffee first?” Illya asked dryly and Solo smiled.  


“No. I had enough whiskey left, so that sufficed.”  


After they left the apartment, Illya reached into his pocket for the car keys. His pocket was empty. Instead of panicking like an ordinary human would, he simply threw a dirty look at Solo.  


“Give them back, thief.”  


“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Solo replied innocently, even as he used the keys to unlock the car and got in behind the wheel. Illya sighed but didn’t cause a fuss. He did get angry, however, when his wallet and watch were discovered missing. This time, Solo had no chance; Illya physically leapt through the middle of the car and barreled directly into Solo. They fell out of the door onto the street.  


“Give them back!” Illya snarled, one hand around Solo’s throat and the other held out, palm up to take his possessions back.  


“Touchy, touchy,” Solo said but he gave the two belongings back to the angry Russian. Illya didn’t let go. He twitched his hand and Solo realized: Illya had noticed that he’d stolen the ring, of all things.  


“Let me up and I’ll give it back,” Solo negotiated. Illya let go of his throat and he stood up painfully.  


He waited while Illya was putting his watch back on, then Solo couldn’t help himself as he gave the ring back. He took Illya’s hand and slipped the ring on. “We are now engaged,” Solo said in a deliberately bad impression of the Russian agent, mocking how Illya had tactlessly gotten ‘engaged’ to Gaby.  


“Shut up, cowboy,” Illya said. That was all. No thrown punches, no swearing- just a ‘shut up’. Solo didn’t know if that was worrying or relieving.  


“Not going soft, are we, peril?” he asked. Illya shot back an insult in Russian that made Solo smile at the venom. This time, when getting into the car, Illya got behind the wheel. He pointed out how the car did actually belong to _him_ , a fact even Solo couldn’t overlook. During the journey, American just sat in the passenger seat and stared out the window, unusually quiet.  


Their arrival at the Moore property was, again, undisturbed. Their path through the grounds and into the house would have been the same if that window wasn’t now closed.  


“I think they’re out,” Solo whispered, “so we can break in. How about that?”  


“Mm.”  


Solo rolled his eyes at that _extremely_ useful response. He made the first move, darting across to the back door. He had it unlocked and open in just a few seconds, a feat which Illya silently admitted was impressive.  


“After you,” Solo said, gesturing with his arm towards the door. Illya didn’t move. Instead, he gestured at the door too.  


“No, ladies first,” the Russian replied. Behind his poker-face was amusement at Solo’s momentary confusion. When Solo also didn’t move, Illya pushed him by the back. “ _I insist_.”  


“We’re in a different room, which means different places to search,” the American agent declared, stating the obvious. He took a step forwards before freezing.  


“Cowboy?” Illya asked, not knowing why Solo had stopped still. Solo turned so he looked at Illya. There was a dart- a _dart_ \- in his neck. Illya watched as the American stumbled before collapsing. Rushing to his side, Illya heard a voice and looked up.  


“Don’t worry,” Moore was saying, stepping into the room. He looked down at them. “Your _cowboy_ isn’t hurt. Although you will be.”  


“What?” was all Illya managed to say before he felt a stinging pain in his back. Numbness spread through his body and Illya found himself falling face down on the floor, unable to move. All he could see was Solo as he sank into nothingness.


	6. Falling Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is captured and tortured for information by THRUSH and it’s up to Solo to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of like a parallel to a scene in the movie? Idk ... 
> 
> I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG
> 
> A more convoluted summary is: Gaby appears. Rudy appears. Victoria also appears (yes, she exists in this fic). Simon makes another appearance. British [English] people everywhere! (Okay, only two, but still.)

When Illya woke up, he was instantly aware that he was not in a good situation. The tight leather straps around his whole body binding him to a chair were far from positive signs.  


“We meant to capture only your American friend,” an unfamiliar low female voice suddenly said, somewhere behind Illya. “He came and we got him, as according to plan, but then _you_ walked in. We were unaware that you followed him everywhere.”  


Illya refused to react to her words, but he felt a tingle of anger as she slyly added, “what are you, his friend? Or just another lapdog?”  


“You would know what it is like to be lapdog,” Illya spat. The woman simply laughed- an unpleasant sound, to say the least.  


“You’re Russian. You have terrible grammar, not to mention that old stubbornness,” commented another unfamiliar voice. Then a man stepped into view, his expression oddly curious.  


“You could not tell from just my accent?” Illya replied sarcastically, looking up. He heard a click. Then another, followed by the man’s frustrated sigh. Illya’s eyes traveled down and he saw a pedal underneath the man’s foot.  


“Has it broken again, Rudy?” the woman sighed.  


“What is Rudy short for?” Illya asked dryly, feeling like he was channeling Solo’s insults. “Rudolph the useless reindeer?”  


“He has the rudeness of a Russian too,” the man, Rudy, said, squinting at Illya as he crouched beside the chair, fiddling with some wires. “The filthy blood of such race is mired with it.”  


“How dare you insult Russia,” Illya growled. The woman finally walked into view. She was rich, dressed extravagantly. Her ears dripped diamonds while her face was sharp, cruel and beautiful. Behind Illya, where the Russian couldn’t see, Rudy nodded at her to say that the pedal was working again.  


“What will you say next?” she said softly, daring Illya to insult her. And insult her, he did.  


“Funny. You look like woman, yet you sound like man.”  


Her face tightened for an instant and then her foot shot out, slamming down the pedal. Electricity shot through Illya and his entire body tensed, muscles contracting, fingers curling. Words could barely describe the pain- burning and endless. When she lifted her foot after what seemed like an eternity, Illya managed to breathe. His throat had closed up during the electrocution.  


“That was only ten seconds,” she said slowly, her foot hovering over the pedal. “If you do not comply, it will be far worse.”  


“What do you want?” Illya growled.  


“We want information. Chiefly on your, ah … cowboy, and little Miss Teller. We know you have contact with both.”  


“Don’t forget my scrapbook first, Madam Vinciguerra,” Rudy added. She turned her head, a thin smile forming.  


“Of course,” she answered before looking back at Illya. “Rudy here has a talent at photographing his work. Of course, he will take most of the footage before you die.”  


She leaned closer and whispered, “It’s more artistic.”  


“That is an old camera,” Illya said, seeing it next to the man. Rudy nodded.  


“An early model, possibly from the sixties. My father was never clear about what time it was made. But, never mind that-”  


He excitedly picked up a large book and slowly turned the pages, letting Illya see them, image upon image of horrific surgeries. Illya felt fear curling in his stomach as he saw those photos.  


“Humans have two masters … pain and fear. I, of course, am an expert at exploiting both,” Rudy said. He leaned close to Illya and the pedal creaked. “Ready?”

☭

Solo’s head hurt. He managed to sit up and found his back against a cool stone wall.  


“A cell?” he wondered aloud. His thoughts were cut off when there was a thump, then the cell door opened. He half expected to see Illya with an escape plan when a man stepped in. It was Simon Moore. He was pointing a gun at Solo’s head. Not a nice wake-up call.  


“Hello,” Solo greeted uncertainly.  


“You are Napoleon Solo, are you not?” Moore asked.  


“Yes?”  


“If you wish for your Russian pet to live, you must answer every question I ask, no hesitation, no lying.”  


“Russian pet …?” Solo murmured.  


“Who is Miss Teller to you?” Moore demanded, interrupting Solo. Solo noticed that the hand holding the gun was unsteady.  


“Easy, teacake,” he said calmly- the British man frowned at the insult- “I’ll tell you all you want to know. Wait … Illya?”  


Solo looked past Moore’s shoulder. The man turned and, in doing so, fell for the trick; Solo leapt up, using his handcuffs to wrap around his throat. There was a scuffle as the American agent dragged the British Nazi backwards into the cell to reduce noise and visibility. It took less than a minute to choke Moore into unconsciousness.  


“Sorry,” Solo said. “It isn’t personal.”  


He paused. “Well, maybe it is. Just a little.”  


He used the gun to shoot through the handcuff chain. It was an awkward angle, twisting the gun to face such a small target, but he was _Napoleon Solo_ , for God’s sake! Needless to say, Solo left with his wrists free. As he looked down the corridor, he wondered where Illya was. Then he began to walk. 

☭

“Beautiful!” Rudy praised, admiring his newest photo. Although he was hurting throughout and struggling to breathe, Illya still managed to glare with deadly intent towards the Nazi. All he wanted was to wrap his fingers around this man’s throat and make him _suffer_. But Illya was stuck in this chair, his wrists chafed from trying to pull free, his mouth acrid with smoke from his own burning skin.  


“That is enough, Rudy,” the woman said and her voice meant it.  


“Who are you?” Illya asked her, his voice hoarse.  


“I am Victoria Vinciguerra,” she said with contempt. She circled him slowly, examining her nails like he wasn’t worth looking at. “I doubt a lowlife like you has heard of me.”  


“I do not harbor interest with Nazis,” Illya replied just as disdainfully. She smiled at his biting insult, stopping directly in front of him.  


“Though you do harbor interest with criminals,” Victoria replied, her eyes now locked on his. Illya couldn’t look away. She was like a spider, spinning her web of lies to catch him, hinting at freedom, only to make his suffering more drawn out.  


“Tell me,” she said in that slow, whispering voice of hers, “how does a high-up KGB agent like you come to partnership with a thief like that?”  


“He is no thief,” Illya snapped.  


“He may be CIA now, but he wasn’t always, and you know that.”  


“You know nothing.”  


“And you are stubborn. You are misled, my Russian dog. He will betray you.”  


This made Illya stop and listen. Victoria smiled briefly.  


“Look at you, perking up like that. You heard me. Napoleon Solo will betray you. As we speak, he has escaped and is leaving without you.”  


“He wouldn’t …” Illya tried to protest but doubt was in his mind now, growing like cancer, spreading slowly, curling out to take hold of his insecurities.  


Victoria smiled at the Russian’s face. Such fear. She ran her nails along his arm and watched his discomfort grow.  


“Now, tell me,” she said, leaning in close, speaking in his ear. “How does a stoic Russian like you …”  


Her voice dropped to a whisper.  


“… _fall in love with a thieving scoundrel like that_?” 

☭

Solo remembered Illya’s smart knockout move. ‘The kiss’, he had called it. Solo preferred the easier way of knocking someone out: punching them in the head with brute force, rather than precision. Which he did to the two guards outside the security room. Slipping inside, he quickly dispatched the man viewing the cameras. Then came the task of finding Illya.  


“Come on, come on,” he muttered, scanning the screens. His eyes fell upon it within seconds. He could see the Russian, tied to a chair. A man stood behind it and there was a woman, leaning close to Illya, seemingly whispering.  


She stood and spoke again. The Russian made a move as if to lunge at her but was stopped by restraints. She laughed before saying another sentence, something that made Illya freeze. Something had hit him hard and Solo didn’t know what. The woman continued to speak. Solo wished he could hear them as he searched for an audio button for the camera.  


Unable to find audio, all the American agent could do was watch in disgust as the woman leaned in and whispered something again to Illya. Leaving him with an expression of defeat, she barked a command at the man behind Illya before turning and leaving.  


Solo looked at the room number and vowed he would save Illya. 

☭

“You are speaking nonsense,” Illya said. His heart felt like it was beating faster now than when he was being electrocuted.  


“I will say it more clearly then,” Victoria said, standing up. “You have fallen hard for your master, you poor little _mongrel_.”  


Illya’s temper snapped and he lunged at her, every muscle straining to reach her, even if just to bite that smug face. But the leather straps held him tight and Victoria laughed, her tone cold as ice.  


“I wonder what would happen if you disappeared like daddy?” she mused, feigning considering it deeply.  


Illya froze then, hatred swimming in his eyes. Victoria continued, her voice teasing but completely serious at the same time. “We are dangerous people. We can make you disappear off the map. Your files, your information, erased. Your beloved Gaby will never even know the truth, as you’ll both be gone.”  


She leaned in again. “Remember that as you die.”  


Victoria stood up straight. “Take care of him, Rudy. I have a cowboy to catch.”  


The click of her heels faded. Illya stared at his feet. For the first time since he was a child, he felt alone. The feeling made him sick and he resented it.  


“I’m in a taping mood,” Rudy said cheerily. He opened a cloth package, folding back the sides to reveal a metal object. The sight of the glinting video camera sent a jolt of anger and helplessness through Illya and, for the first time in his life, he wished for Solo to appear.  


“What are you feeling right now, hm?” Rudy asked, fingertips stroking the camera as he spoke. He drew out the tripod and held it up to the light.  


“Fuck you,” Illya spat.  


“We’re back to average insults, are we? Ah!” Rudy picked up the camera. He held it up for Illya to see. “This is a trusty one. Never fails me. Such sharp images, with color too. A more modern gift from my father.”  


“Let me go,” Illya said, instantly hating the pleading implications of his words. Rudy simply laughed and stepped closer.  


“You know why this is my favorite?” he asked and Illya shook his head, eyes never leaving the camera. “Because it captures he moment of _death_.”  


“Don’t-” Illya started to say. The Nazi doctor held his finger so close to his lips that Illya felt the man’s skin. He fell silent.  


“Hush, hush,” Rudy said softly. “It doesn’t do to speak out of turn. I might find you rather annoying if you argue.”  


Illya fixed his eyes on the ceiling and began to pray for a miracle. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t get lost in his own head as Rudy set the camera recording and put his foot on the pedal.  


“You may feel a slight tingle,” he said happily. 

☭

Solo ran down the hallway, his side aching. He could feel the gunshot wound reopen from the constant movement. _Dammit_.  


It hadn’t taken long for him to get here. Dodging guards was easy, as there were plenty of doorways to hide in. On his way here, Solo had even seen that woman, the one who was tormenting Illya. He had wild urge to shoot her but knew it was stupid. The gunshot would be heard all around and he would never escape alive, even if he _was_ Napoleon Solo.  


So, much to Solo’s dislike, he had let the woman pass before continuing on. He arrived and opened the door to find himself in face to face with a guard. The guard looked more surprised that Solo was so he didn’t react immediately. The elbow came up hard, smashing into the man’s chin and sending him down.  


“Where are you, peril?” Solo murmured to himself. He glanced through a pair of glass doors and his heart jumped. There was Illya but he did _not_ look okay. There was a man stood beside the Russian agent, his foot on a pedal. Illya was shaking and his nose was bleeding and he was _...  
_

Solo considered sneaking in but then he caught a glimpse of a camera- that sick bastard was _recording_ Illya’s suffering- and he felt a spike of burning anger. _Fuck stealth._  


Solo kicked the door open, startling the man next to Illya. The American shot the security camera before shooting the man in one efficient sweep. He didn’t even have a chance to react.  


“Illya- jesus!” Solo exclaimed, going to untie the Russian and feeling how hot he was. The Russian gave him an unfocused stare.  


“Cowboy …?” he murmured before closing his eyes. “You can’t be here, you left me …”  


“Don’t talk,” Solo said, looking around. He saw a selection of tools nearby, much like his own but these were for much worse intentions, and grabbed a small knife, knocking a scalpel onto the floor. It was much quicker to saw through the leather holding Illya than to untie it.  


“Can you stand?” Solo asked as he pulled Illya up. The Russian opened his mouth to speak when the man- who Solo had presumed dead- sat up, swinging the scalpel Solo had dropped. It was sharp enough to slice the end of Solo’s tie off but missed him overall.  


“You missed,” he said before kicking the man hard, knocking him out.  


“No, he didn’t,” Illya said and he abruptly stopped standing then, arms holding onto Solo’s shoulders as his legs buckled.  


“Whoa, whoa, hey, what’s wrong?” Solo asked. Then he saw the metal handle of the scalpel. The rest was in Illya’s leg and blood was soaking outwards, fast.  


“Shit.”  


Solo grabbed Illya and began to run, half dragging the Russian as he lost sensation in his leg. Every person they came across was shot without question. Solo didn’t have time to waste. He crashed through the doors, almost dropping Illya and tripping over him.  


“A little help, peril?” he cried. “Try to stay awake, at least!”  


“I am, cowboy,” the Russian replied, holding his leg with one hand right. His face was twisted with pain but he continued on. He grabbed Solo’s jacket with his spare hand. “You are bleeding.”  


“Yeah, it’s not good to run like this after being shot in the side,” Solo said. He avoided saying _after you shot me_. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to start pointing fingers.  


He broke into the first car they came across. Solo got quickly behind the wheel and hot-wired it before looking at Illya, who was in the back.  


“Keep pressure on that!” he shouted over now-roaring engine.  


“What do you think I’m doing?” Illya snapped, both hands on his leg around the scalpel. His face was pale. He didn’t have much time. Solo dug in his pocket for his phone as he drove and threw it at Illya.  


“Call Gaby then hand me the phone!” he explained before putting his foot down. Keeping one hand on his leg, Illya dialed her number before holding it forwards, next to Solo’s ear.  


“Napoleon?” she asked when she picked up.  


“Gaby, yes, it’s me. Listen, you have to be at our apartment in ten minutes. You still have the spare key, right?”  


“Yes, but why-”  


“And I need you to make sure-” Solo began before the phone slipped from Illya’s hand. It bounced and got wedged between the car door and the seat.  


“Can you reach it?” Solo called back to Illya. The Russian inched his way along to it, reaching out. His fingers touched the phone but his hand couldn't slip into the gap enough to reach.  


“Fuck!” Illya swore before groaning, holding his leg. He rolled onto his back, bleeding across the back seats.  


“Hold on, peril!” Solo said before leaning towards the phone. “Gaby, if you can still hear me, we’re going to need lots of towels, a needle and thread. I’m hoping you got that!”  


He drove so fast that he ran two red lights and almost didn’t brake when he reached the apartment. Gaby's car was parked outside and she ran out the door when they arrived.  


“Napoleon, what are you- oh my god!” She stopped short upon seeing the blood. “Whose blood is that?”  


“Mine,” Illya said as Solo helped him out of the car. Gaby quickly helped them, not caring if she was smeared with blood.  


“I got the things you asked for,” she told Solo as she held open the door. He got Illya into a chair. Gaby tried to sit Solo down too, but he refused medical attention.  


“No, go help peril,” he said, moving towards the Russian.  


“Don’t be stupid, cowboy,” Illya said but his argument was half-hearted. His grip loosened and blood began to drip through his fingers.  


“We’re going to have to get the scalpel out and sew it up, okay?” Solo said to Gaby. She nodded grimly.  


“You do the scalpel and I’ll do the sewing. You’re bleeding too, so there’s no question that it would affect your handiwork,” she said, not as a suggestion but as a command. She and Solo crouched on either side of Illya who looked at them.  


“How will you sew?” he asked. Gaby rested some scissors against his leg. Illya stared. “No. You are not cutting that high up.”  


“You know what? I’m not even going to wait.”  


Gaby pulled up the material and pierced it with the scissors, a couple of inches above the knee, right above the scalpel. Solo kept his hand on the chair by Illya’s good leg and one on the back of the seat to keep it steady. The Russian’s face remained neutral even as Gaby cut the pant leg off at the thigh, peeling it away from the injury. The only sign that it was affecting him was when Illya’s hand began to tap slightly.  


“Solo is going to remove the scalpel now,” Gaby said, fixing the American with a stare that meant ‘you can’t back out now’. She looked back at Illya. “Then I’m going to sew you up.”  


“This has happened before,” Illya said in a tight voice, “just do it.”  


Solo rested his hands around the scalpel on Illya’s leg. He could feel the pulse beneath the skin. Gaby threaded a needle ready. They both looked at Illya, who closed his eyes and nodded.


	7. Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya wakes up. He wants to get back to his job straight away and it’s up to Solo to stop him. But then an unexpected visitor arrived which changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, as there are other TMFU fics I’m working on and I don’t want to drag this one on for too long (I’m running out of ideas!) 
> 
> But seriously, thanks for reading, and I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :D

“You feeling better?”  


Despite his swimming vision, Illya opened his eyes before wincing at the light. He could see a silhouette.  


“Cowboy?” he mumbled.  


“The one and only.”  


Illya could hear the smile in Solo’s voice.  


“What happened?” Illya asked, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand.  


“Gaby got it sewn up fast. Then you two grabbed vodka. I guess you were in pain and she was tense and needed a drink. I have to say, I’ve never seen two people drink a whole vodka bottle so fast. You were both out cold afterwards.”  


“Mm.”  


“I, um …” Solo looked away. “I saw that woman with you, back at THRUSH. Who was she?”  


“Victoria Vinciguerra,” Illya said and a shadow fell over his face. “She told me that you left me.”  


“And you believed her?” Solo asked incredulously.  


“Yes!” Illya replied angrily. He sat up from the couch he was lying on. “She lied, cowboy. Do you want me to hand it to you on silver platter?”  


“Don’t-” Solo began when Gaby walked in behind him. She sighed, as if bored with their antics.  


“Stop flirting, Solo. Stop playing hard to get, Illya. Get a room, for God’s sake.”  


Illya glared so hard at Gaby that Solo was surprised she didn’t burn like an ant under a magnifying glass. Gaby slipped her bag onto her shoulder. With another sigh, she crossed her arms and sarcastically said, “Solo saved your life, Illya. I’d say it’s _destiny_.”  


The two men were speechless as she sauntered out, a smile playing over her lips. There was a moment of silence.  


Solo wasn’t sure how he ended up on the floor with the Russian on him. He only registered a rush of wind and an angry sound; then Solo was on his back, furious blue eyes staring into his own surprised eyes. Illya seemed to want to say something, his eyes burning, but eventually shook his head. He stood up, leaving the confused American on the floor. Illya shook his head.  


“I need something to drink,” he muttered, limping out to the kitchen to get one. Solo raised an eyebrow, standing up to follow the Russian.  


“You don’t normally drink, peril. What’s with you and all the vodka recently?”  


Illya didn’t say anything but he pointedly drank a glass of scotch instead. Solo sighed and walked to the Russian, saying, “at least let me help you around. Gaby said you shouldn’t walk with your leg like that. Plus, you’re hungover.”  


“I am KGB,” Illya answered stubbornly. “I will not allow a simple leg wound to stop me. And I am not hungover.”  


“You see? That's the sort of mantra that gets you killed, peril. You want to go around with a gun to THRUSH’s front door, be my guest. But not like this. You can’t even run. At least, not properly.”  


Illya shook his head, as if he didn’t have the patience for this conversation, and poured another glass. Solo caught his wrist.  


“Gaby’s set rules. No overdrinking and no exertion.”  


“I am not just going to sit around,” Illya argued, pulling his arm free but leaving the drink. Solo went to move the glass when there was a knock on the door. The American went to answer it.  


“Yes?” he began. He was met with the muzzle of a gun. A sharp smiling face was behind it. _Victoria Vinciguerra_.  


It was clear that, by the look on her face and her steady hand, she was shooting to kill, unlike Moore. Illya stood up fast with fury in his eyes.  


“How dare you come here,” he snarled. She simply smiled, managing to look down at him despite being shorter than the giant Russian.  


“You must be Solo,” Victoria said, her eyes flicking across to him. He offered his best smile and, with as much charm as he could force, said, “I am. And you must be the beautiful Victoria Vinciguerra?”  


“I am,” she replied before she stepped into the room, her cold eyes returning to the Russian agent. She noticed how he was standing and raised an eyebrow. “What happened to you, hm?”  


“None of your business,” Illya growled, at the same time Solo said, “A minor injury.”  


It looked like their responses didn’t help nor interest her in the slightest. Her finger tightened on the trigger by a fraction.  


“Anyway,” Solo continued, ignoring the dirty look Illya gave him, “why are you here, Victoria?”  


“I was looking for dear Gaby; her father heard she was in town and wishes to see her,” she said smoothly. “However, it seems she isn’t here. Did she leave you two lovebirds here alone?”  


At that, Illya visibly stiffened, his shoulders tensing. At Solo’s bemused expression, Victoria laughed, her earrings glinting.  


“You poor man, didn’t you know?” she asked, her eyes finding Solo’s. He continued to frown, silently asking her to explain. Explain she did. “Your _tovarisch_ here has fallen for you.”  


Illya’s jaw visibly clenched and his eyes were burning now, but he made no move to speak or act. His hands were shaking down by his sides.  


“Is that all?” Solo asked. He was determined to keep his mind off this new information and keep all his attention on this woman before them.  


“Yes, Mr. Solo. Perhaps I will return for darling Gaby. I may see you again.”  


With a fleeting smile, Victoria turned, keeping her gun raised. Illya stepped forwards.  


“Victoria,” he said quietly and she turned. At unbelievable speed, he drew his gun and shot her twice, once in the head then in the chest. She crumpled, far less regal-looking than usual. Solo looked at the body and frowned.  


“Illya, that wasn’t polite.”  


Illya responded by simply using up the rest of his bullets shooting her body more. Solo winced.  


“That was _definitely_ not polite. And what will Gaby say? You killed a woman on our carpet, in our apartment!” Solo exclaimed, exasperated. Illya fixed him with a flat stare.  


“She was no woman,” he answered shortly. As he went to move the body, Solo cocked his head.  


“Yes, she was. What do you think she was?”  


Without turning or ceasing in dragging the body away, the Russian replied, deadpan, “a bitch.”  


And Solo, damn him, he _smiled_. 

☭

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Solo asked.  


“What?” Illya said, refusing to meet his eye. They were stood on the balcony outside. Victoria’s body was in the bathtub and they had left it to drain the blood out. None of the bullets had gone through her, so there was surprisingly nothing on the carpet.  


“That you’ve, you know … fallen in love with me.”  


“Because I haven’t.”  


“What?” Solo stared at the Russian, who flushed slightly. Solo didn’t know if it was from humiliation or anger.  


“I never fell for you,” Illya spat, his words biting. “I don’t want to and I never will.”  


He looked away, stone-faced, his hands holding the balcony so tight that his knuckles were white. Solo knew he would be treading on thin ice if he were to breach- or even _attempt_ to get through- the hostile shell that Illya wore. The American sighed.  


“Look, peril …” Solo began before hesitating. “We can make this work.”  


Illya gave a hollow laugh, his mouth unsmiling and his eyes humorless.  


“How can this work, cowboy? You say you like me. She said I like you. She is-”  


“Was,” Solo corrected.  


“Fine. _Was_ wrong. I hate you.”  


“You’re lying.”  


Illya’s eyes flashed and, in a dangerous voice, he demanded, “Excuse me?”  


“You’re lying, peril,” Solo said, matter-of-fact and deadly serious. “I know you. The way you reacted to her words? That wasn’t fake. She was hitting home. She knew exactly how to push your buttons and we both know that. So _stop lying_.”  


Both of them seemed surprised at the tone of Solo’s voice. He had never really acted assertive to the Russian before.  


Unbelievably, the smallest hint of a smile graced Illya’s face. He looked away again.  


“Cowboy …” he murmured.  


Then, from behind them, Gaby spoke.  


“So,” she said, and they turned. She looked up at the two, arms crossed, a grin forming. “When’s the baby due?”


End file.
